


I Have Not Lingered

by saintscully



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Fluff, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Pre-Slash, M/M, Missing Scenes, Pining Sherlock, Podfic Available, Pre-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Retro TRF, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock's Hiatus, To be fair John is pining too, non-linear timeline, post-TRF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25304263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintscully/pseuds/saintscully
Summary: For two years, Sherlock Holmes chases criminals and risks his life to dismantle Moriarty's web of lies. But in the downtimes, in between one bad guy and another, he reflects on the life he once lived with John Watson.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 61
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	1. A Thistle (Northern Cyprus, 269 days since the fall)

**Author's Note:**

> [Now available as podfic!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28928181) Read the full story notes and premise at the end notes. 
> 
> **Inspiration:**  
>  This story was inspired by Leonard Cohen's poem, [I Have Not Lingered In European Monasteries](https://genius.com/Leonard-cohen-i-have-not-lingered-in-european-monasteries-annotated). I've added quotes to the different chapters. Attached to them are copyright notices. You know, as to not upset the copyright gods.
> 
>   
> **Find me on Tumblr:**  
>  I am [therealsaintscully on Tumblr](http://therealsaintscully.tumblr.com) and [saintscully2](http://twitter.com/saintscully2) on Twitter. Come say hi.

_I Have Not Lingered In European Monasteries_  
_and discovered among the tall grasses tombs of knights_  
_who fell as beautifully as their ballads tell;_  
_I have not parted the grasses_  
_or purposefully left them thatched.  
  
_Copyright Leonard Cohen and/or publishers McClelland & Stewart, 1993. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**_Outskirts of Karaagaç, Northern Cyprus / August / 269 days since the fall_ **

The early dawn brings with it the first rays of sunlight and sounds of growing traffic from the nearby road.

Sherlock opens his eyes, waiting for his brain to come online. It takes him longer than usual to orient himself in his surroundings these days. Moving from country to country will do that to you, even if you’re incredibly clever.

He slept on the rough ground last night. The car he had bought with cash upon landing on the island broke down in less than 8 hours. 

Having abandoned his plans for reaching his destination on time, he was in no rush to get to the next destination. His contact, who was adamant about meeting outside of Turkey proper in fear of the authorities, expects at least another day’s delay. Their meeting point, a small restaurant near the Ermeni Manastırı, is less than an hour’s drive away. Sherlock has plenty of time to figure his current situation out, and he can walk there if necessary.

So he was in no rush last night, but he grumbled with frustration when he realized he was doomed to spend the night in a car with no air conditioning to speak of. In this suffocating Mediterranean August heat, passing a night inside the warm, old vehicle was an unappealing concept.

He had to make do with a makeshift bed on the ground, hidden from the main road by the car.

He raises his eyes to the grey sky above him, taking another minute to compose and reassess his situation. Mycroft is aware of his condition, as is Eva, his unofficial MI6 handler. They have agreed he would stay put for the night, and get in touch in the morning to hatch a new plan.

Morning is here and he would like to get moving. He's thoroughly exposed here and might attract unnecessary attention. He stands up slowly, dusting dirt and sand off his clothes. When he’s fully standing, he takes a minute to look around and survey his surroundings. Behind him is a row of trees, stretched along the road. The view is one which you might see in nearly any other island in the region: green olive trees, grey rocky hills, bright clear sky.

When he turns to look ahead, he takes stock of his surroundings and narrows his eyes to recognize what he’s looking at. It’s the most outer edge of a vast, expansive farm, obviously maintained regularly by a farmer. _Cynara scolymus_ , Sherlock thinks.

Artichokes.

Rows and rows of green, thick stalks stretched as far as the eye can see, thriving and blossoming despite the region's scorching heat this time of year. 

Memories rise up in his mind, unexpected and uninvited; memories of John and their first months as flatmates. That period of time when everything Sherlock did John found to be amusing, surprising, and more often than not, slightly objectionable.

_They’d been living together for three weeks by that point. John suddenly stopped walking during one of Sherlock’s tirades, his attention away from Sherlock. They were standing outside a questionable-looking Italian restaurant in Hackney, arguing over Sherlock’s eating habits yet again. John, in his perpetual hangry state, pulled Sherlock into the restaurant without a word._

_The restaurant had seen better days, to be sure, but John was undeterred. He sat down and waited patiently for Sherlock to join him, then summoned a waiter._

_Sherlock did not take part in the dreary ordering process; he couldn’t care less and wasn’t planning on eating anyway. He continued with his tirade as if never interrupted until the waiter laid one of the dishes down, right under his nose._

_Wafts of smell reached his nostrils. Jewish Artichoke, a dish he discovered years ago in a small restaurant in the old Jewish Ghetto in Venice. He looked down at the warm, deep-fried thistles, his mouth watering._

_Without a word, he grabbed a fork and finished the entire plate. When he was done, he raised his eyes and found John’s sparkling with mirth, his brow raised with surprise._

_“Should I order some more?” John chuckled._

_“Of course not.” Sherlock said, affronted._

_“You like artichokes?” John smiled, sizing Sherlock up._

_“Hmmm.” Sherlock hummed, embarrassed._

_“Really? Of all things to stuff yourself with you choose artichokes?” John laughed. “There’s barely anything to eat of it. It’s all thistle.”_

_“Wrong as always, John. The bottom parts of the hard leaves are very nutritional and the heart is the best part when handled correctly.” Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal, then clamped his mouth shut. That sentence came out far more poetic than intended._

_John peered at him, holding back a laugh. “Quite right.” He said and grabbed his fork, scarfing down whatever was left on his own plate._

_A week later, Sherlock was stretched across the sofa when he opened his eyes abruptly. He was pulled out of his Mind Palace unexpectedly; there were smells. Good smells. And they were coming from the kitchen. There was butter somewhere in the mix, Sherlock could tell._

_“John!” Sherlock called._

_“Yes, Sherlock?’ John sounded amused as if expecting this exact turn of events._

_“What’s that smell?”_

_“Artichokes. Well, artichoke risotto to be more precise.” John called back from the kitchen. “Thought I’d give it a try since you like them so much.”_

_“Oh.” Sherlock said, sounding rather uncertain._

_If he did sound uncertain, and he was sure that he did, it was simply because nothing like that had happened before._

_No one ever… paid attention. Or made an effort. His uncertainty was a result of his mind not being entirely sure how to respond._

_He got up and strode quickly towards the kitchen but slowed down once he entered John’s field of vision._

_John smiled, clearly taking pride in learning one can pull Sherlock out of a major thought experiment using food._

Better not encourage such misguided notions _, Sherlock noted but lost his train of thought as he stared down into the simmering pot._

_In the months following the artichoke incident, John would surprise Sherlock with new artichoke dishes (”Found the recipe on Jamie Oliver’s website.” John said as Sherlock chewed on a lemony piece, not bothered to ask who that was.). That usually happened on days he wasn’t on a date or a double shift at the surgery._

_It stopped after the pool. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure about the connection between the two things, but by the time John came back from New Zealand, Sherlock had realized it’s been a while since he’d had his last artichoke._

A loud noise cuts through his daydream. It's a truck honking, from somewhere up the main road.

When he looks down at his burner phone, he sees a text message.

 **“Arrive at location 40 by 3 pm today, a car will be waiting.** ” It instructs him. He swallowed loudly. North Cyprus isn’t lawless and the asset he’s about to meet isn’t dangerous. However, the fact that the man insisted on meeting outside of Turkey left Sherlock, Mycroft and Eva somewhat concerned. They were hoping that he wouldn’t be stepping straight into an ambush. The fact that Eva arranged for a car shows that she’d like him to be able to be in and out of there easily.

Still disoriented from transitioning so quickly between past and the present, Sherlock sighs.

His heart pangs when he wishes he had his smartphone with him. If only if he could take a photo of this field, remind John of their artichoke days when he... if he. He's not allowed smartphones, though. Manufacturers fill them up with unknown software and hardware, and that might give him away. He has to settle with old Nokia phones, ones he replaces every few days.

 **“Whisky?”** He texts Eva in response to her previous text, their agreed-upon codeword for inquiring about John Watson’s.. condition. Existence.

 **“Functioning.”** Eva writes back. _He’s alive_.

He takes in a big breath. “Alive” means there’s still a point to all of this. He shakes his head, clearing it of distracting thoughts. He walks to the car and pulls his bags out.

Another message arrives. **“Keep an eye out when nearing location 40. We don’t have full details.”** Eva wrote.

 **“Ack.”** Sherlock responds in acknowledgment and pockets the phone.

Turning his encrypted GPS device on, he sets on by foot to his next location.


	2. Walking on Water (Netherlands, 155 days since the fall)

_ Although I have watched him often _ _  
_ _ I have not become the heron, _ _  
_ _ leaving my body on the shore, _ _  
_ _ and I have not become the luminous trout, _ _  
_ _ leaving my body in the air. _ _  
_

Copyright Leonard Cohen and/or publishers McClelland & Stewart, 1993. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**_Texel, The Netherlands / April / 155 days since the fall_ **

Sherlock sits on a bench at the far end of a small fishing village’s harbor. The area is bustling with tourists, attracted by food stalls and pubs despite the unseasonably cold weather.

It’s days like this that Sherlock misses his Belstaff. He had to leave his London persona behind and is now relying on professional trekking and travel gear provided to him by Eva. They do the job, functionally, but none of these plastic contraptions can envelop and protect him like his old coat.

He’s distant enough from the crowd. The  [ bench is seated on the last piece of earth overlooking the waterfront ](https://www.istockphoto.com/il/photo/volendam-gm1091807002-292924210) of the great North Sea. It’s such a spectacular location. The presence of nature’s grandeur so overwhelming, encapsulating. The North Sea stretches ahead in every direction. It is so big and so calm that Sherlock finds the silence deafening.

The Dutch people have had an incredible relationship with water for hundreds of years. They’re experts in reigning the water to prevent flooding, but also know how to send those waters coursing through the countryside. The waters that could have destroyed them are tamed these days, yielding crops and cheeses and tulips. 

What might happen to this tiny village if the sea levels rise, he wonders? His mind fills with images of ancient deluges. He attempts a thought experiment instead. What might happen if, much like an imaginary carpenter from Nazareth, he'd take a step forward, walk on the water that bellowed gently underneath him?

And if he continued to walk on the water for days on end, where would he get to?

Surely no place he’d like to be right now.

It’s John’s birthday.

Last week he managed to, hopefully undetected, gain access to his old cloud accounts. Well, he says old. They’re the accounts of a dead man, but they’re still available since no one ( _ Mycroft _ ) reached out to the various providers to report his demise.

Sherlock hunches over an old PC in a library in Den Burg, a nearby city where he was planning to meet one of Eva’s assets. He had a few hours to pass and it was a cold day, so he chose the library as a shelter. He logged into his accounts relying on the anonymity of a public computer and an MI6 vetted VPN service.

When he opened one of the storage accounts, an activity notification popped-up. Lestrade. He modified one of his files, using permissions he was given months ago.

His video greeting for John’s birthday. 

His stomach turns when he looks at the date at the bottom of the screen. John’s birthday is indeed coming up.

Today’s the day and here he is now, on the shores of a great sea, alone. 

He’s holding a big box of the Dutch people’s version of fish and chips, warm and salty and perfect. He lifts a piece of fish to his mouth, chewing quietly. 

_ Two weeks after finding Irene’s phone on the mantel, John insisted on going out for some fish and chips. _

_ John was still endlessly moaning about his breakup from Jeanette while simultaneously stealing worried glances at Sherlock.  _

_ Eventually, Sherlock relented, rolling his eyes and sighing loudly. They walked silently together one evening, Sherlock leading the way to his favorite chippy. _

_ “Do you… know that guy?” John asked as they sat down in one of the simple tables. There were no tablecloths, no napkins. It’s a no-frills establishment, much like the man who owns it. _

_ “Didn’t I say this is my favorite chippy?” Sherlock responded with a question, deflecting. _

_ “Oh, I just mean.. Is he a.. friend?” John's voice was high-pitched. Sherlock was quite impressed at the time. He didn’t think John would pick up on anything. He had an agreement with Ian; they kept the whole thing to themselves. _

_ Sherlock didn't respond. John never liked silence, so he tried again, laughing awkwardly. “Does he owe you a favor?” _

_ “I should say so.” Sherlock whispered with a raised eyebrow. _

_ Surprised, John turned around to look at ( _ a thoroughly handsome, Sherlock remembers _ ) Ian, then turned back. He looked at Sherlock as if he suddenly grew tentacles. _

_ “Why are we here, John?” Sherlock asked as he popped some chips in his mouth, licking the salt off his fingers. _

_ “Oh.” John said. “Well, seeing as we’ve both been a little down recently I thought we can sit down with a beer. You know, like mates do.” Both their faces twisted at the word 'mates'. _

_ “What makes you think I’ve been down?” Sherlock dug further. _

_ “You know. Irene.” _

_ “What about her? She’s dead.”  _

_ “Yes I know that, Sherlock. Thank you.” He exhaled loudly, upset over Sherlock’s lack of cooperation. “You seemed upset that night. You still do. I thought you'd like to talk about it.” _

_ “I believe I mentioned being married to my work when we met, didn’t I?” Sherlock asked and John moved uncomfortably in his chair. _

_ “So you weren’t actually.. With Irene?” John asked. “Aren’t you interested in that? In meeting someone? You see yourself staying alone forever? It might turn quite lonely.” _

_ “Loneliness is a choice, John.” Sherlock said coldly, unsatisfied that he’d lost control over their conversation. _

_ “What does that mean?” John said. He seemed repulsed by the idea. _

_ “It means that I realized a long time ago that it'd be best for everyone if I don’t.. branch out, as it were.” _

_ “Choices are changeable, Sherlock.” John said and shook his head. “I meet a lot of people.. elderly and otherwise at the clinic. Some of them feel so lonely they admit to coming over just so they can speak to someone once or twice a week. Doesn't that sound--” _

_ “Have you met me, John?” Sherlock asked, attempting a smirk but failing. “Besides, there’s always Billy.” _

_ John chuckled and shook his head. “It’s just not what I want for you, Sherlock.” _

_ “But that’s not up to you to decide, is it, John?” Sherlock retorted quietly, his eyes stuck at the bottom of the container. He picked at the last crumbs, enjoying their saltiness. _

_ John sat quiet beside him, recognizing the dismissal for what it was.  _

_ “And as for Jeanette, she wasn’t the one.” Sherlock exclaimed. _

_ “Hmm?” John turned to look at him, still deep in thought over their previous conversation. _

_ “She’s been sleeping with the school principal this entire time.” Sherlock got up and threw the container away. “It would never have worked anyway.” _

_ “WHAT?!” John rushed to follow him, blindsided. _

Distinct scents of a fishing village fill his nose. He closes his eyes and leans back on the bench, willing the memory to go away.

He was honest in that conversation. Loneliness  _ is _ a choice he had made a long time ago. A man afraid of loneliness doesn’t pretend to die in order to dismantle a crime network all by himself.

But he’s here now, and the weight of the memories weigh him down. He knew when he left there would be an adjustment period; some time required before he'd stop looking over his shoulder waiting for somebody else to keep up.

He never imagined the adjustment period would turn into a permanent ache in his stomach.

**“Whisky?”** he texts Eva, thoughts of John still floating around in his head.

**“Functioning.”** She responds, same as always. He gets to be slightly relieved for a bit longer.

Another text.  **“Lima is waiting at the meeting point.”** He supposes she can see the question about John for what it is by now. An expression of hesitation, of homesickness. She give his a task to divert his attention instead.

**“Ack.”** He acknowledges her directive.

**“Armed?”** Eva asks.

“ **Indeed.** ” He responds. He’s always armed these days.

Sherlock gets up, throws the container away. He takes one last look at the sea, his lips bunched as he gathers his strength.

He braves through the crowds, the people carefree and cheery. One last information gathering assignment in the Netherlands. Then it’s time to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, in my headcanon Brave John Watson tried his luck with Sherlock again. Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn't ready yet again.
> 
> The bench in the photo I linked to is in Volendam. It's exactly how I imagine where Sherlock is. However, Volendam watches over the Markermeer lake and not the North Sea. But this is the image you should have in mind.


	3. Tis But A Scratch (Italy, 90 days since the fall)

_I have not worshiped wounds and relics,_ _  
_ _or combs of iron,_ _  
_ _or bodies wrapped and burnt in scrolls._

Copyright Leonard Cohen and/or publishers McClelland & Stewart, 1993. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**_Milan, Italy / January / 90 days since the fall_ **

Snow covers the Italian city, leaving its streets quiet and empty. Some couples walk side by side, others carry groceries and rush to the warmth of their houses. On patches of pavement not covered by snow the sounds of his footsteps bounce off the stone buildings, amplifying his solitude.

Sherlock would have escaped to his own abode if it weren’t a temporary, derelict warehouse. Very few people would call it a house, let alone a home.

 _This is fine_ , Sherlock thinks. The snow reminds him of London and he always does so love a snowy city. True, in London he had the warmth of 221B to look forward to even on his worst day, but snow is snow and he’s a man on a mission.

Long snow storms in Milan are uncommon, and this storm’s severity was unexpected. He planned to leave the city under less than 48 hours heading to Innsbruck tonight, renting a car and arriving by morning.

Eva notified him that the mountainous roads are heavily covered with snow. She suggested he stayed in Milan another night, waiting for conditions to improve. He feels absolutely nothing towards this city. He could be in any other European city for all he knew. It’s hard to tell them apart now, months into his exile.

He’s been wandering the streets the entire evening, lost in thought, recalculating his next steps. 

His delayed arrival to Innsbruck means a cascading change to his plans over the next few weeks. He’ll need to readjust his plans. This will hold him back for a while, since in Innsbruck he expects to deal with two of Moriarty’s largest crime rings. They are seemingly normal main-street businesses, used to cover up huge drug- and human-trafficking operations. The leaders of the rings are, fortunately, idiots. The type Sherlock met nearly every day in London, so he’s not as worried as he was in other locations so far.

When he turns a random corner minutes after leaving the Royal Palace behind him, his eyes are drawn up, unable to ignore the majesty of the building. [ The Duomo sits large in the middle of a piazza, imposing, drawing attention from the surrounding buildings. ](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/483996291200928210/) He watches in silence, his eyes squint due to wind and his breath a white fog. He’d seen dozens of churches and cathedrals since he left London behind, but something about the darkness, the way it’s lit and its silent domination of the skyline leaves Sherlock affected.

Memories float to the front of his mind, and he smiles as he imagines John's mirth.

_Sherlock’s eyes were too close for comfort to the laptop screen, but there was nothing for it at that point. He’d been Googling for hours, meticulously cataloging new data about nearly every cathedral and basilica across Europe and the Middle East._

_It's been a long week, hot and stifling, and he hated that he took this case in the first place. He was about to say exactly that, take his anger out on John, when the man began giggling._

_“What is it?” Sherlock griped._

_“Nothing, it’s just this story about the Duomo in Milan.” John said, his laughter increasing._

_They'd been working this case for three days straight. Holy relics had been disappearing from Vatican owned locations for months. The relics are major attractions for tourists and their loss is severe. The Vatican, using unofficial channels, turned to Sherlock for help. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t give a fig and a half about holy relics or the Catholic Church. This case was promising to be a 3 at the most, even with the addition of international intrigue and the chance to tell the Pope to go stuff it._

_Sherlock was a mere second from declining when the Vatican liaison mentioned the price they’d be willing to pay for a discreetly solved case._

_John’s brows flew to the ceiling. That was followed by minutes of Sherlock being wordlessly bullied into taking the case,_ or else _._

_“It’s just money, John.” Sherlock moaned later, feigning disgust._

_“Yes, it is, Scrooge McDuck.” John said, using his responsible adult voice. “It’s plenty of it and we need it so get on it, genius.”_

_Sherlock will never admit to Googling Scrooge McDuck, not even under torture. He deleted his browsing history promptly after._

_So there he was, the great Sherlock Holmes, listening to John Watson babbling on and on about growing up Catholic. While his faith is mostly dormant, he always wanted to visit the Vatican (_ “Do give the Pope my best, John” _)._

_Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to tune John out but it was fruitless. The man was talking on and on about the Duomo (still!). A fact caught John’s eye; once a year a relic called The Holy Nail is retrieved from its place in a celebration known as the Rite of the Nivola._

_John laughed again, a full belly laugh this time._

_“Excuse me, John,” Sherlock said, insistent on stopping this madness. “Do you mind telling me why you’re still talking about this?”_

_John was undeterred by Sherlock’s tone. “I just think it’s funny!” he cried. “‘The Holy Nail’? That’s ridiculous!”_

_Sherlock was the one to raise his eyebrows this time. “You were raised Roman Catholic and you think_ that’s _ridiculous?”_

_“It sounds like a Monty Python movie!” he laughed some more, wiping tears from his eyes._

_Try as he might, Sherlock is not immune to John’s laughter. But he did his best to hide it, his face registering nothing. Unfortunately, that gave him away instantly._

_“Sherlock?” John asked, calming down. “You do know what Monty Python is, don’t you? ‘Tis but a scratch’? ‘I’m a lumberjack’?”_

_Sherlock shook his head._

_“Did you delete every pop culture reference you’ve ever learned?”_

_“I’m not sure I ever knew them in the first place.” Sherlock frowned._

_“You’ve heard about Harry Potter, right?”_

_“Is that the little wizard boy?”_

_John chuckled and shook his head. “How about The Beatles?”_

_“Of course.” Sherlock said quickly, but didn’t specify further. He knows_ of _beetles, of course, but not any specific ones. He can name more than 400 sub-species. However he strongly suspected that that was not what John meant, and was worried about the direction the conversation was going._

_"What did you do for fun when you were growing up?" John asked, probing at a topic he’d probably been meaning to investigate for a while._

_"I played the violin and suffered through Mycroft rehearsing for Lady Bracknell."_

_John's lips pressed together in sympathy._

_"It was a rough year." Sherlock said and they both laughed this time. "Not least of all for Lady Bracknell."_

_“Well, I can forgive Harry Potter and even The Beatles,” John said and smiled at this laptop screen. “But not Monty Python. Get ready for movie night.”_

_“No, John.” Sherlock pleaded._

_“No excuses, Sherlock. Monty Python movie night once we solve this case.”_

_“You mean once_ I _solve this case.” He grumbled and threw a glance at John only to find they’re both smiling furtively at their respective computer screens._

The Holy Grail was indeed a funny film, Sherlock would admit. It was surreal and absurd enough to not hurt Sherlock’s more cerebral sensibilities. He spent that entire evening keeping himself from laughing out loud - he did have a reputation to maintain, after all. John spent the entire evening sneaking glances his way, as if to reassure himself that Sherlock was engaged.

A group of loud teenagers pulls him away from the memory. He looks at them, begrudging the interruption. They’re enjoying the rare opportunity of this Christmas-like snow; throwing snowballs, chasing each other. Their mood is such a contrast to his.

He looks up. If the Cathedral were open right now, Sherlock might have risked betraying all common sense and walked inside to hear more about that Holy Nail. It’s not the Vatican, he supposes. Not what John was hoping for. But he can just imagine the two of them listening to the story of the Holy Nail standing inside this intimidating building, giggling like kids.

He sighs and looks down at his burner phone. He'd expected Eva to initiate contact with an update. He chooses to do so himself.

 **“Whisky?”** he texts her.

 **“Functioning.”** He sighs. His latest conversation with Eva left him with a sneaking suspicion that that was true, but only barely.

 **“Storm is expected to subside by tomorrow evening. Be ready to depart.”** Eva, ever practical, cajoles him out of his brooding by making plans.

 **“Ack.** ” He texts back. 

He sneaks one last looks at the Cathedral, memorizing it. With thoughts and memories swirling through his mind he turns and walks towards the warehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a Ron Swanson quote in this chapter. Did you catch it?


	4. Meditate (Nepal, 120 days since the fall)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never been to Nepal; I’m sure it’s lovely. Sherlock is having a bad time so his judgment is clouded.

_I have not held my breath_  
_so that I might hear the breathing of God_  
_or tamed my heartbeat with an exercise,_  
_or starved for visions._

Copyright Leonard Cohen and/or publishers McClelland & Stewart, 1993. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**_Nikoshera, Nepal / May / 120 days since the fall_ **

It’s a bright, sunny day in Kathmandu. 

Sherlock hates it. 

He hates all of it. He hates the crowds of tourists, he hates the restaurants full of mountain climbers, he hates the fake hippies and peace activists.

He leaves the capital city and goes back to his hideout, away from the main streets. Eva had sent him here in vain. They were hoping to prove that the lion’s share of Moriarty’s money laundering operations was done right here, in these streets. By the time he landed the entire operation was... gone.

Either someone tipped them off or he was doing a bang up job and they’re afraid, noticing the trail of destruction he’s been leaving behind him.

Either way, Mycroft and Eva need a few days to ‘reconvene’, send their assets across the city to learn what exactly happened and recalculate their steps.

 _I don’t want to recalculate, you idiots_ . Sherlock wants to tell them. _I want you to get me out of here, as soon as possible. This place is hateful._

He was sent here after the mess in Azerbaijan. Innocent enough, he thought about Azerbaijan. Didn’t expect much. But apparently a tall, pasty Englishman stands out in the downtown of Hovsan. In a random act of violence by a local, passing gang they rounded on him, laying blow after blow.

They didn’t hurt him too badly. He’d had it much worse before. But he was blindsided, and very thankful for the good Samaritan that threatened to call the police. He limped back to his hideout, his pride wounded.

He took some time to regroup but only barely, and was sent here to Nepal. No time to waste on maudlin recuperating. 

He tried walking among the crowds earlier, but felt overwhelmed and overstimulated by the fast moving vehicles, the language he doesn’t understand, the people pushing and shoving. His body is vibrating with the need to DO SOMETHING. The worst part in this entire “adventure” he’s on is the waiting. He’s not built for sitting around and waiting. He needs cases, problems to solve. He never bothered to prepare to actually play tourist here.

He grabs his burner laptop, ostensibly to Google names of places he might visit nearby but his fingers have a mind of their own; he ends up Googling John’s name. He scours the web, his Facebook account. Nothing. There are dozens of new comments on the blog, all unanswered. It’s as if the man disappeared off of the face of the earth.

He knows it’s not true; Eva sends regular updates. But he worries over John's silence. 

His anxiety gathers strength inside of him, like the beginnings of an avalanche. He needs to calm it before he loses all sense of control. He closes his eyes. He takes a couple of deep breaths: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. He tries counting. He tries humming.

_Six hours after migrating to his bedroom in response to an argument (over.. dishes? Improper use of detergent? He wasn’t listening) Sherlock decided he wasn’t angry anymore and headed straight to the sofa._

_He couldn’t get anywhere near it. It’d been conquered by his flatmate._

_He stood over the man, imperious. John’s eyes were closed, headphones in his ears. He seemed relaxed._

_“John.” Sherlock called, his voice sour over the loss of his kingdom. John didn’t respond._

_“JOHN!” He called, louder this time. The doctor jolted from his repose._

_“Jesus, Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John asked, pulling his headphones out._ Not moving to leave the sofa _, Sherlock noted._

_“You’re on my sofa.”_

_“_ Your _sofa?” John raised his brows._

_“Yes, of course it’s my sofa.” Sherlock retorted, petulantly. “What are you doing?”_

_“I’m meditating.” John smiled._

_“You’re…” Sherlock gaped, certain his friend was having an aneurysm._

_“Meditating. To relax.”_

_“Relax from what, exactly?” Sherlock sniped, but he knew the answer to that, didn't he? John needed to relax because of Sherlock. Was he supposed to be offended by that? He wasn’t._

This is ridiculous. _He thinks._ My best chance to get the sofa back is to confuse John enough to prompt him to make some tea.

_“Oh, just in general. Join me.”_

_“So you are having an aneurysm.” Sherlock determined._

_John chuckled._

_“A friend sent me a link to this YouTube video that guides you through the mediation process. Come on, sit next to me. Try it.” John moved a bit, clearing some space for Sherlock._

You know, you’d never get angry again if you just accepted the fact that I don’t do chores, _he wanted to say. He didn’t. He was well within John’s punching range and it wasn’t worth it._

_“You know, there are proven medical benefits to meditation.” John said._

_“I doubt that.” Sherlock mumbled as he sat down._

_“Alright. Now. Close your eyes and focus on the video’s guidance. Let all your thoughts go away...” John was undeterred by Sherlock’s scowl in response to what he’d just said. “And if you can’t, just focus quietly on your breath and think happy thoughts.”_

_Seeing as John wasn’t confused enough for tea yet, he had no choice but to play along._

_They sat there for 5 minutes, shoulder to shoulder, listening to that dreadful video. Sherlock concentrated on John’s breath, his closeness, his smell. During one moment, Sherlock was about to give up and moved his leg. John, his eyes still shut, grabbed him by the knee to still him._

_This was a rare moment of closeness that Sherlock barely had a chance to experience. He didn’t hate it. In fact, it was rather nice._

_When the video ended, they opened their eyes slowly. John was beaming at him. The smile made feel as if he's glued to the sofa._

_“Did you like it?” John asked with a genuine smile._

_“Hmm.” Sherlock hummed, ambiguous._

_“What were you really thinking about?” John asked, amused._

_“I was calculating theoretical values for the Drake equation.”_

_“You -- what?!” cried John. “I said ‘let go of your thoughts’!”_

_“You said to think happy thoughts!” Sherlock protested._

_“Your happy thoughts are calculating the odds of life outside of Earth?!” John exclaimed and Sherlock nodded._

_“Why?” John asked, confused._

_“You’ve seen life on this planet, John.” Sherlock said, waving a hand in dismissal. “This can't be the best it ever gets.”_

_John's face displays a multitude of emotions at that; first anger, then mirth, then a measure of agreement with Sherlock's philosophical words. And then.._

_Mission accomplished!_

_John was now so confused that he required tea._

_Grumbling and mumbling, John got up from the sofa - Sherlock’s sofa! - prompting Sherlock to immediately spread all over it, reclaiming his territory like a cat._

_‘I’ll have a cup, too, thank you!” Sherlock calls while entering the deep recesses of his Mind Palace._

He opens his eyes, transported back to reality. This helped, somehow. The waves of panic receded, his mind clearer.

He texts Eva. **”Whisky?”**

 **“Functional.”** He reads with relief and feels a semblance of control return to him. A bit more at ease now, he starts Googling, reading local news.

A story about a group of monks catches his eyes. Relieved and revived, he smiles at the opportunity of a case.


	5. Brave Boy! (Panama, 210 days since the fall)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left..

_I have not been unhappy for ten thousand years._  
_During the day I laugh and during the night I sleep._

Copyright Leonard Cohen and/or publishers McClelland & Stewart, 1993. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**Tocumen Business Plaza, Panama / June / 210 days since the fall**

Sherlock is bored out of his mind. 

John Watson used to make him watch one Bond film after another with him. They’d sit silently side by side for hours at a time, fulfilling their respective roles. John would talk about his favorite and least favorite Bonds, Sherlock would roll his eyes and tune him out during the unavoidable Sean Connory impressions. 

Sherlock would always try to convince him that spy work is nothing like that. No flashy cars, no genius equipment. It’s mostly 1-star hotels (if you’re lucky), boring meetings with overly zealous assets and plenty of mind-numbingly boring  _ WAITING _ . 

Granted, right now Sherlock is waiting for a doctor to treat a rather severe set of wounds. He learned that’s not something people usually consider boring. However the doctor about to tend to him is not one John H. Watson and so Sherlock already resents any fussing and attention he’s about to receive.

He’d been tasked with the mind-numbing chore of bringing down a servers farm run by a local internet service provider. Most of the data that can be found about Moriarty’s various rings is concentrated here. It was supposed to be easy. Three nights of some lightweight hacking in a gray, almost satirical looking office of a questionable tech operator. Then, off to the airport for his next destination.

_ Not very James Bond, is it John?  _ He thinks.

But then a security guard arrived. Well, that’s a bit of a fancy term for him. A thug arrived. You don’t expect a thug in that sort of establishment but there he was, nonetheless.

Of course Sherlock has a thug of his own here in Panama. That was Eva’s idea and he now realizes just how brilliant it was. His thug is a thoroughly well-built Ukrainian named Vlad. Vlad’s tattoos confirm the veracity of the unbelievable stories he’s been telling Sherlock.

So there was a brawl. An incident. That happens when Sherlock, well, speaks (it’s not his fault the thug engages in a long-term relationship with a male Japanese sex doll. Sherlock doesn’t judge, he only deduces.) Long story short, he's waiting to be treated for broken fingers and loose teeth and so on and so on. It’s all very dull. 

Vlad came out unscathed, of course.

The only upside of this entire situation is that thanks to genius Vlad, Sherlock is utterly and thoroughly drunk. His Ukrainian companion assured him that alcohol is the first step in healing. He’s not much of a drinker but he can’t deny it can be rather helpful from time to time.

Time passes differently when you’re drunk, he realizes. He has plenty of time to lose himself in memories.

_ One night, about two months after Dartmoor, Sherlock opened the door to his flat. The sitting room was dark and quiet at this late hour. He listened for signs of John; Sherlock saw him staggering into the flat two minutes before he did. _

_ John had been out for a pint ‘with the mates’ so Sherlock pursued a lead for the case alone that evening. There had been an incident, one which Sherlock was quite happy John wasn’t a part of. _

_ Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. John was there, drinking two glasses of water in an attempt to prevent an impending hangover. _

_ John heard him approaching him and turned to look at him, his eyes unsteady with alcohol. _

_ “Sherlock!” He cried. “What did you do?” _

_ There was a big, black bruise on Sherlock’s cheek. His nose was bleeding, as were his hands. _

_ “Nothing. Everything’s fine.” _

_ John shook his head, his speech slurry. “Whadyou mean “fine”?” John said. “You’re hurt. Sit down.” _

_ “It’s just a bruise--” _

_ “Sit down!” John commanded and left to retrieve his first aid kit. “I shouldn’t be treating you when I’m this pissed.” _

_ “I agree.” Sherlock moved to stand up. _

_ “Shut it.” John growled and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “What happened?” _

_ Sherlock told him about the old lady that he didn’t expect to find in the suspect’s flat, and how she’d surprised him with a powerful punch that really has no business coming from an elderly woman. Sherlock thought it was uncalled for. John didn’t. _

_ “Don’t take this the wrong way Sherlock but knowing you I’m pretty sure it was completely justified.”  _

_ Sherlock shrugged. John worked silently, gently.He wiped dried blood clean and pulled shards of glass out from Sherlock’s right hand.  _

_ “Why do you insist on getting hurt so much?” John suddenly asked quietly, as if it wasn’t meant for Sherlock’s ears. _

_ “I don’t  _ insist on it, it just happens.” Sherlock said petulantly.

_ John was silent. Three Pints John is broody, emotional John. _

_ “It’s just…” John said, picking up the antiseptic. “It just feels like you’re being purposefully reckless. Like you’re… unhappy. Like you have this death wish.”  _

_ Sherlock had to to blink for twenty full seconds, trying to follow John’s drunk logic. _

_ “What does happiness have to do with any of this?” Sherlock asked, still confused. _

_ “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” John clenched his jaw, then sighed loudly. “You don’t have to be happy if you don’t want to. You always have things your way anyway.” _

_ John was finished. He collected the various items, putting every piece back in its place neatly. _

_ Sherlock’s eyes furrowed and he swallowed before he asked: “Are you.. happy?” _

_ John was silent for a long minute. He looked everywhere but at Sherlock. “All things considered, yeah.” He said. “Yeah, I am.” _

_ John left the room to place the first aid kit back in its place, then called out a quiet and rather melancholy “Good night”. He silently climbed the stairs to his room and closed the door behind him. _

_ Sherlock’s lips bunched in deep thought, alone now and free to contemplate John’s words. He stared at his fingers for a minute then left for his room, closing the door behind him. _

“All done, Mr Smith. Are you alright?” A voice with a thick, Central American accent jolts him back to reality. The doctor looks at him with a worried eye.  _ How long have I been tuning him out? _

He’s about to speak when his body suddenly shakes with the power of Vlad patting his back delightedly and equally forcefully. “Brave boy!” Vlad exclaims and Sherlock winces from the pain.

“Yes.” Sherlock says. “Thank you.”

When they leave, Eva’s text confirms John is still ‘functional’. 

_ But is he happy? _ Sherlock wonders.


	6. Mayday (Hungary, 700 days since the fall)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that earned this story the Mature rating + Sherlock/OMC tag, so tread carefully.  
> -  
> If any of my readers is a native or a resident of Pápa, Hungary - please don't take offense (and also, how cool is that!). I'm sure it's a lovely place. I needed a location with an army base not very far from Serbia and Pápa was a good fit. As in the Nepal chapter, Sherlock is having a bad time so his judgment is clouded by his emotions.

_ I'm almost alive  
I'm almost at home  
No one to follow  
And nothing to teach  
Except that the goal  
Falls short of the reach _

Leonard Cohen, [The Goal](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mszJwXsZwKM) (from Thanks for the Dance, 2019), Copyright Leonard Cohen and/or Columbia Records and/or Legacy Recordings. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**Pápa, Hungary / September / 700 days since the fall**

Sherlock lets the loud music and flashing lights work their magic and drown out his thoughts. He’s been in Pápa for two weeks, waiting for his contacts to signal when things are ready to go. His next stop - hopefully the last or maybe the penultimate one - is Serbia. He expects it to be the most difficult stop of all. Serbia may turn to be his make or break point; it’s the deadliest task he’d been given so far and he may not survive it at all. Even if his body survives it, his mind might not.

But it’s necessary. He’s come so far and he can sense the approaching finale. He allows himself to be carefully optimistic. The work he’s been doing has brought down most of the leaders of Moriarty’s various rings and the remaining ones, those in Serbia, should be weak and rudderless by now. He won’t be surprised if they turn on Moriarty’s network, fearing Sherlock’s revenge.

He’d spent his nights here, every night since stepping foot in this godforsaken city. Eva sent him here due to the nearby NATO Air Base. She’d arranged access so he could get intelligence briefings, supplies, and some much-needed rest. He’s ready to leave for Serbia on a moment’s notice and can reach Novi Sad by car in under five hours.

This is a gay bar, though not outwardly so. It’s the sort of Eastern European establishment that turns a blind eye. 

It’s a red, dilapidated single-storey building. It was once a building that serviced the adjacent petrol station. It was abandoned and repurposed as a makeshift nightclub. Soldiers from the NATO Base spend plenty of evenings here, sexual orientation notwithstanding. Beggars can’t be choosers, and it’s the only real source of entertainment around here.

He didn’t come here for anything in particular, initially. It’s either that or shutting himself in that small room they assigned him. He stayed there night after night at first, refusing to be seen by too many people. Then he grew bored. Now he’s also growing restless, his uncertain future gnawing at him.

He’d refused any attempt at eye contact so far, but tonight he’s vibrating with desperate need. He’d been so careful, never allowed himself to slip. There wasn’t anything.. Anyone, really, in years so he’s not sure why his body is demanding any attention right at this moment. It’s strange, and it’s also an incredibly unwise crave. Though he knows they’re NATO soldiers he doesn’t really know who they are; whether friends or foes. This is dangerous and would be reckless to fall prey in such a situation.

He feels his resolve melting with every passing second, despite his rationalizations.

A blond officer has been looking his way the entire night. And all day too, to be fair, at the Air Base. Sherlock deduced his entire life story over a stale breakfast, sitting alone in the quiet officers' mess ( _ single child, had a knee surgery when he was seven, slight lisp, has a cheating girlfriend at home; offers blowjobs as revenge. _ ) The man is confident, smiles easily but with a dangerous twinkle in his eyes. He tried chatting Sherlock up a few times before but he rejected him. 

Right now.. Sherlock can’t help himself. He looks back and their eyes meet. The blond man grins in surprise at this turn of events, predatory. The glance they exchange is clear and concise.

Sherlock gets up and heads towards the men’s room, his heart beating in his ears. _Just this once._ He thinks. _Just to get this out of my system._ _It doesn’t mean anything_. He hears the thought and wonders who exactly he's reassuring.

They meet in one of the toilet stalls, and Sherlock is on his knees as he cups and unzips the other man’s trousers quickly and efficiently. The other man smiles down at him. He grabs Sherlock’s hair and his head falls back, sighing loudly when Sherlock takes him in his mouth.   
  
Sherlock regrets his decision the second he feels the latex as it touches his tongue.  _ No. _ His mind buzzes in disgust, wishing he could undo it.  _ Stop. Stop. Stop. _   
  
It’s over too soon, and Sherlock’s mind goes shockingly blank when he feels the warmth of the man’s cum through the condom.

The officer pulls Sherlock up by his arms, pushes him against the stall door.

“Most te”. He says,  _ now you _ . With a smile on his face he sends his hands down Sherlock’s body but Sherlock stops him in his tracks.

“Nem. Menj.”  _ No, go _ . Sherlock orders him, removing the man’s hands from his body more powerfully than intended. “Menj!” 

The man looks affronted but leaves without a word.

Sherlock leaves the stall, the tastes of synthetic latex and sour bile mixing in his mouth. He grabs onto the sink as if his life depends on it and stares at his pitiful reflection in the dirty mirror.  _ Stupid _ . He thinks.  _ You’re STUPID _ .  _ Was this really worth risking everything you worked so hard for? _

_ Sherlock stared at John’s reflection in the mirror, lost in thought. They were getting ready for Sherlock’s court appearance and John had been nervous and prickly that entire week. John is adjusting his tie, brushing dust off of his ghastly blazer. _

_ None of that mattered, though. While John was worried about little things like his courtroom behavior, Sherlock had been busy arguing with Mycroft and Eva about their contingency plans. _

_ They had 18 initial plans for dealing with Moriarty’s final strike. These were narrowed down as things progressed and Moriarty’s behavior became more and more erratic. They were at 15 the morning of his court appearance, but by the time he left to pick John up they were left with 13. _

_ The two cast out options included plans to have John join him in his exile. _

_ “We can’t do that, Sherlock.” Mycroft said for the 20th time that day. “He’s a civilian. You’re not. You’re MI6. He’s not.” _

_ “He’s an ex-soldier!” Sherlock cried. _

_ “Who was invalided and sent back home.” Mycroft reiterated, his voice cool. _

_ “He can do this, Mycroft. He survived working with me so far.” Sherlock pleaded. _

_ “What makes you sure he’ll want to? It could turn into a suicide mission.” Mycroft looked straight at Sherlock, his jaw jutting out. “Moriarty is working to dismantle your reputation. What if you need to go and John loses his faith in you?” _

_ Sherlock looked disgusted and prepared to make a scathing retort when Eva interrupted. _

_ “Sherlock, even if he would like to come with you, there’s absolutely no way I can get an approval for that. We discussed this many times.” She said, her tone sympathetic. “We’ll watch over him. We’ll send reports.”  _

_ Sherlock’s face must have given him away.  _

_ “You can always refuse, not take the mission.” Mycroft said with unusual sympathy. “We’ll find another way.” _

_ “No.” Sherlock said, straightening his back with newfound resolve. “No. I have to be the one. I want to finish him once and for all.” _

_ And it was true. He did. He’ll go away for a while and fight these battles, so that he and John can continue living their lives without fearing this deadly maniac.  _

_ And that was it. _

_ Before Sherlock left Mycroft’s office, he heard his brother’s hushed words: “He’ll wait for you, Sherlock.” Sherlock never responded to that. _

_ Back in their sitting room, Sherlock so badly wanted to open his mouth and tell John everything. Warn him. Ask him to be patient and forgiving.  _

I may have to leave soon, John. I’m sorry. I’ll try to come back as soon as I can. Don’t believe what they’ll tell you about me. Please forgive me. 

_ “Ready?” John asked, waking Sherlock from his thoughts. _

_ “Yes.” Sherlock said and cleared his throat, hiding his internal turmoil. _

_ The Lazarus protocol was the worst case scenario. The one they planned in case Moriarty does something truly unexpected. The one Sherlock most wished they wouldn’t have to resort to.  _

_ In the end it was the one he was left with no choice but to initiate, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. _

The door to the men’s room opens and two men step in, laughing and touching each other. They look at him for a second, then continue into one of the stalls together.

Sherlock takes the hint and leaves in a hurry, pushing people away as he moves. He exits the bar, gasping for fresh air in the wake of an impending panic attack. He leans hard against the red wall, his body melting from fear and anxiety.

What if Serbia turns out to be as dangerous as he fears? What if he actually dies there, John never knowing about Sherlock’s true fate? Shouldn’t John know? It’s been so long and Sherlock’s job is nearly finished - surely it’s safer now, safe enough for him to send at least a cryptic goodbye message? What difference does it make if he dies?

**“Whisky?”** He types, his hands shaking.

**“Functioning. Much better.”** Eva writes and Sherlock’s mind zooms in on the additional text. Much better.  _ What does that mean? _

**“Equilibrium.”** He writes back, initiating a protocol they’ve established for when he needs 24 hours to get off the grid and regroup. He needs a break. His brain is going into overdrive, memories of the tryst in the men’s room not five minutes ago, of John, looking at him through the mirror in their sitting room.

**“Ack.”** Eva responds.

He thinks for a minute before resorting to a doomsday weapon.

**“Whisky Mayday.”** He types, his fingers shaking and his breath shallow.

They discussed this in general, never the specifics. In case an emergency comes up and he needs to contact John. In case he got even the slightest sense that John is in danger, that John needs him.

Eva doesn’t acknowledge his text.

Another text message pings. He doesn’t need to see the number to know who this is.

**“You’re close. Whatever just happened, don’t panic now. He’ll be there when you come back.”**

**“Whisky Mayday. Whisky Mayday.”** He texts back, his panic not subsiding in the least.

**“No. Only location 55 left. You’ll be in and out in no time and then we can pull you out. You’ll be home by next week.”**

Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge that. His entire body is shaking with rage, with homesickness, with mortal fear. 

The weight of the last two years crushes his heart like a heavy rock.

He just wants to go home. He _ just  _ wants to go home.

_ Only a few more days in Serbia, in and out _ , he thinks, more memories of John flashing in front of his eyes; John meditating, John watching Bond, John cleaning scrapes and standing looking harmless next to a police car.

_ In and out. _ He breaths in, attempting to calm down.  _ Only a few more days,  _ he think as a memory of John smiling at him comes to mind.

He opens his eyes, stares at the stars above him. _ I can do this, _ he thinks, berating his traitorous heart. _I'm better than this._ _ In and out. _

He takes a long, stabilizing breath and moves away from the wall. 

Shaking his head and his arms to regroup he turns and starts walking slowly, hesitantly towards the Air Base.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head and even if my count is incorrect, by the time Sherlock is captured in Serbia, Mary and John's relationship is quite serious. Eva and Mycroft would be aware of that, hence Eva's 'much better'. This chapter takes place in September, when by the time Sherlock returns it's either late October or early November (Guy Fawkes Day etc.)  
> -  
> This was the most difficult chapter to write. I hope it's not too bad.  
> -  
> If you enjoyed I Have Not Lingered, check out my other stories: [Fight or Flight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25032004/chapters/60620197) (Sherlock and John's story during Mary's time away), followed up by [Detours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25112365), a friends-to-lovers post-TFP story.  
> Also, [Every Other Universe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25218724), which I very simply describe as "What if in every other universe John Watson leaves?"
> 
> I have a few more things in the works so feel free to subscribe to receive updates about new stories from me.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Story notes and premise:**  
>  I wrote this story after re watching [Many Happy Returns](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwntNANJCOE) a few times. Judging from the video, it seems like Sherlock’s time away was spent solving various cases and sitting as a jury member in Germany (for some reason).  
> So my head-canon for this story is that the majority of Sherlock’s time away was manageable (in the sense that the level of violence matched those of Sherlock’s life in London), only sometimes exciting, and that the only really traumatic event happened in Serbia. So let’s agree on that premise for the sake of this story.  
> The counting of days in the following chapters relates to one version of [BBCSH's timeline in](https://bakerstreet.fandom.com/wiki/Sherlock_Timeline) which the fall happened in November. John's birthday in the BBC Sherlock universe is in April.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Have Not Lingered [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28928181) by [helloliriels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloliriels/pseuds/helloliriels)




End file.
